Today, I poisoned my enemies.
I used gas.
I gassed them twice. Once in the morning and once in the afternoon.
I'm told gas is a dreadful way to die, but I can't muster much sympathy for my fallen foes.
Although, if I'm being perfectly honest, I must admit to a tingle of superstitious apprehension.
Killing crickets is supposed to be bad luck.
They were infesting the storage closet of the condo I now own.
This morning, when the locksmith came over to rekey the locks, I asked him if he could open the storage closet. When he did, when the light poured into the dark, the air was filled with frantically jumping bodies, little bolts of drab brown leaping helter skelter to escape the light.
"Good lord," I said. "I could open a goddamn bait shop!"
The locksmith thought that was funny.
After he had left, I drove down to the home store and bought a three pack of poison foggers. I've used two.
The first seemed effective. Crickets, roaches and spiders were clawing their way from beneath the door of the storage closet, to twitch and convulse on the back patio. I watched them from inside the house, physically repelled by their very presence.
I don't like bugs.
I'm not afraid of them, I'm just intensely disgusted by them. By their waving antennae and the skittering-skritching sound so many of them make as they rush across a wall or floor.
I don't know how many I killed today, but I've got a third fogger waiting to be used tomorrow.
I look forward to using it.
I really do.